Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [85]
For a man like Pins, belonging was all that mattered. Mixed with that desire, however, was a deeply hidden fear, one Pins thought he would never have to face again. It was the fear of the gun.
Like the other members of the group, Pins never worried about dying. But he didn’t want to have to survive another wounding, didn’t think he could walk through that pain and come out of it one more time. He also didn’t know if he could complete the one act that seemed second nature to the other cops in the room—Pins didn’t know if he could kill a man. His risk was always in laying down the plant, his action was in the wire, his trigger was turning on the tape. That was where he excelled. With this group, it was a talent that just might not be enough.
• • •
“WHEN DO WE go?” Geronimo asked, scanning the faces of the others, trying to detect their levels of interest.
“I start Monday morning,” Boomer said. “I’ll be working out of Nunzio’s basement. We’ll keep everything we need down there. Anybody else who shows up that day starts with me.”
“This crew of ours,” Rev. Jim said. “You gonna give it a name?”
“The Crips would be good,” Pins tossed in. “But that L.A. gang beat us to the punch.”
“I haven’t thought of one,” Boomer said. “Is it important?”
“Eventually, Lucia’s gonna wanna know who we are,” Rev. Jim said. “Who it is fucking up her business. Be nice if we could tell her. Let her know who she’s at war with.”
“Apaches,” Geronimo said in somber tones. “We should call ourselves the Apaches.”
“Just because you’ve got a little Indian blood in you?” Dead-Eye asked. “I’ve got African blood all through me. Don’t hear me layin’ any of that Roots shit on the rest of you.”
“In this case, we all have Indian blood,” Geronimo said, turning from one face to the other. “In Apache tradition, when a warrior was wounded in battle, he was left behind by the tribe. Left to fend and care for himself. He had become too much of a burden to the tribe. That’s us, Dead-Eye. That’s all of us.”
“Do we get shirts and hats to go with the name?” Rev. Jim asked. “You know, with our logo?”
“What about Nunzio?” Pins asked. “What do we make him?”
“A scout,” Mrs. Columbo said, leaning her head against Nunzio’s shoulder.
“Okay, we’ve got a name,” Boomer said, standing, reaching behind him for his jacket. “And by Monday afternoon, based on who’s here with me, I’ll know if we’ve got a team.”
They all stood, picked up their coats and hats, shook hands, and headed for the door, moving quietly, minds already drifting toward a decision.
Geronimo and Boomer waited for Nunzio, watching as he closed up the restaurant.
“That on the level?” Boomer said.
“What?” Geronimo asked.
“About the Apaches. And leaving their wounded behind.”
“How the hell should I know?” Geronimo said, smiling for the first time all night.
Boomer smiled back as he put on his jacket. “Well, as of tonight it’s a fact.”
“Sure it is,” Geronimo said, following Boomer and Nunzio out the door. “First Custer, then Wounded Knee, and now the Apaches.”
• • •
FLIGHT 518, THE 9:08 A.M. Phoenix to New York direct, was full. Each seat was taken, overhead compartments were stuffed with carry-on luggage, stowaway space was crammed with handbags, briefcases, coats, hats, and sweaters. Signs of a long plane ride were already apparent: tanned passengers in flowered shirts; flustered parents trying to calm anxious children; earnest young businessmen poring over computer printouts; Manhattan-bound tourists underlining passages